Page 39 of Detectives in Love
“When did you—?” I start, but Xavier cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
“Later.”
Sticking to the shadows, we circle the building and stop behind a leafless bush, out of reach of the streetlights. It’s pitch dark here, the air heavy with the smell of damp concrete.
For about half a minute, Xavier paces along the stone wall, craning his neck to peer into the gloom. Then, with a quiet but triumphant “Mm,” he waves me over.
I step closer—and immediately regret it. My stomach drops. A flimsy steel ladder hangs from the roof, barely secured to the wall.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I whisper.
“There’s a hatch on the roof,” Xavier says just as quietly. “It’s open tonight.”
“I hate you,” I say flatly. Xavier smirks, but a second later, he’s already climbing.
Several grueling minutes later, we haul ourselves onto the roof, where thick pipes and tangled wires sprawl across the brick like a nest of black snakes. A little way off, a small square hatch sits embedded in the floor.
Xavier opens it. A rope ladder dangles into a pitch-black void.
God, no.
“Want to go first?” Xavier asks, that insufferable smirk creeping into his voice.
I glare at him but swing my legs through the opening, grabbing the rope. No way am I letting him think I’m scared. The ladder sways. I take one step, then another, breath tight as I descend into the dark. It takes maybe ten seconds to hit the landing below.
Xavier appears beside me almost instantly (of course he does, with those long legs), and whispers:
“Getting out’s gonna be tricky. Especially if we wake the guards.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, already creeped out. “Where to now?”
“Down. The morgue’s in the basement.”
We move carefully down the dark staircase, Xavier in front, his whole body tense. We’ve both got our phone flashlights on, but the beam barely cuts through the dark.
Every time we reach a landing, Xavier stops, waiting. I can tell he’s straining to catch every sound in the silence. Then we keep going, one flight at a time.
To my surprise, we reach the basement without a hitch. We push through a metal door and step into a narrow hallway.The darkness is thick here, pressing in from all sides, but the flashlights help a little.
Xavier stops at one of the doors with a small glass window and peers inside.
“Should be it,” he whispers as we step through.
A blast of cold air hits us. Yeah, this is definitely the morgue. I exhale, relieved—not just that we’re in the right place, but that the whole thing went pretty smoothly. Maybe we’ll be just as lucky getting out.
This room is brighter—three rectangular windows high on the opposite wall let in just enough streetlight to cast long, blue-tinted shadows across the space.
Xavier moves toward the wall of pull-out freezer chambers. I follow, scanning the name tags in the little glass panes. The middle chamber in the third row catches my eye.
The tag reads:Henry Lloyd Wakefield.
“Got it,” I whisper.
Xavier steps over, and together, we pull out the chamber.
There he is. The man we last saw in another morgue, just a week ago. Only this time, he’s not frozen solid.
“Newt?” Xavier says, impatience creeping into his voice. “Work your magic.”
